Namesake
by sydneythecat
Summary: "Erza?" "Wait," came the stern, yet sweet, conspiring reply. "I... You said you had an appointment." And then he felt it. / One-shot - Jerza/JellalxErza / AU / Jellal is suffering from lung cancer. Erza gives him a gift that will keep him safe, and warm.


Waves of tulips cascaded down her back. The crimson kissed her shoulder blades as it brushed from left to right, pouring through the air to the curve of her frame, and he gazed. The shocking color cut into the solace of the atmosphere surrounding the hidden edges of her flesh and he gazed. The cushion of the silken, burgundy curtain was an ample comfort to his aching irises and so, he gazed.

Oh, if he could just reach forward and bury a trembling hand inside the depths of its scarlet glory. If he could only brave such a dangerous war ground; the grass painted in the reddest rose petals as they bloomed out of the open wounds and the open veins and the open souls from whose desolate intentions she protected him. She was always protecting him on that battlefield.

That battlefield was her namesake. He had possessed the daring audacity to hold such a woman in his arms, at such a vulnerable age, and name her. It was her hair.

_It was your hair._

The milky lavender dress she wore held no beauty comparable to the carmine veil crowning her head and dripping down across her lovely bones and straight shoulders and strong back and tender waist. Nothing she could wear, nothing that could be bought, nothing that existed would ever be able to hold a dying candle's prayer to that endless, blood-soaked waterfall.

Her footsteps were soft murmurs as she crossed the room to sit beside him. Her slender fingers stretched out, each fingertip shy against the skin of his sallow cheek. They gingerly marched up to the side of his barren head, devoid of the lively blue ribbons to which it used to tie itself. It was as smooth as the crystal ball that warned him of the dormant disease that his grandmother's genes had so quietly, sneakily laid to rest within him.

"Miss Scarlet? Visitation hours are done for the day, ma'am," the kindly nurse who had bustled into the room but a moment ago murmured. "He must sleep. You are welcome to come back tomorrow." Her eyes, gray like warm wool passed between the pair before her several times before coming to rest upon her patient. A solemn nod of her head, and she bustled out of the room in the same manner she came.

Erza held the bashful pads of her fingertips against Jellal's vein-riddled scalp. He closed his eyes and allowed his fragile lungs to steal an enormous, weighted bag of gold from the air. They stumbled and sputtered beneath the weight of the treasure and he hacked, shuddering infinitesimally. Her slender digits remained, steadfast, as his figure convulsed. They traced small, soothing circles along the skin behind his right ear. The thieves regained their composure, and their hideout stilled beneath her touch… beneath her strong, timid hands.

They succumbed sheepishly and retreated after a precious moment or two. He no longer counted moments, and just let them come and go without stamping a number upon their chests. They were not his to number, anyway. They were hers, now, as well.

"I will be back tomorrow, Jellal."

"I might be busy," he chided. His only business these days was dying, and he had taken to fooling around with their goodbyes at the end of each day. Sometimes he had a dance lesson; sometimes he was off on a fishing trip. Sometimes he was simply having tea with a friend. On the evenings when his soul felt particularly beaten, his parting words took on a cruel subtlety, saying he was off to meet with Ultear at some big theatre in the sky. Those were the evenings Erza's mousy fingers grew into fighting lions and would dare to slap such horrid uttering right off of his tongue, dying man or not.

"Oh?" She played the part seamlessly by now, the smile he felt his entire being aching without seeing slowly spilling across her pale pink lips. "And what has you otherwise occupied?"

He gazed once more at her hair, his skin screaming to be wrapped up in its silky strands.

"I've got a hair appointment," he replied. But it was not in the jovial manner he usually feigned for these farewells. There was a fraction of his fiction that held sorrow more evident than Erza was accustomed to seeing.

Her smile stayed put, and she stood from her chair, smoothing out the front of her lilac dress. She leaned over him, placing those commanding hands against the crown of his skull. The warmth surprised him. He was always cold now. Her skin felt like it was only a thin partition between the ice in his head and the lava in her veins.

"Well, tell them not to take too much off," she replied with a wink. She reeked with optimism. She always did. He was always cold and she was always brave. She was always a churning volcano.

She took her fiery skin away from him and walked away. She left, and he shivered, and he was alone. The lights went off after some more moments he wasn't counting passed by, and soon the lights in his mind were going off, too. One by one, the two thieves in his chest calmed down. Sleep came soon, but the tears came sooner: too weak to burst forth, too small to plummet down in heavy streams… but just haunted enough to leave behind salty footprints.

And then sleep came, and he could swear he felt the earth shake as he relented to slumber. There were no dreams. Just the chill of vacant space.

"Ma'am, he is sleeping." His bustling nurse with the warm wool eyes was standing outside his door, vigilant as she was under the misconception that he was still slumbering soundly, unawares to reality and indifferent to the sun's schedule.

"Nurse?" He called, and she peeked in through the door, her gray orbs apologetic. She quickly withdrew her head from the room and pushed the door open.

The creak of the hinges was nostalgic, and he found the sound burrowing into his eardrums, seeking access to the memories he had tucked into his mind's old, soft bed. There was nothing more promising or more terrifying than a door opening. It could be his mother coming to say, "I love you, good morning." It could be the men that pillaged his house and killed her and took him away to Heaven's damned tower. It could be a murderous, rage-filled fairy, bursting into room after room in that damned tower, lusting for Jellal's blood. It could be his coffin opening and his dead body being revived by a girl whom idolized his very manner of breathing.

But this door gave way to someone he trusted, he knew, and he relaxed enough for his eyes to wander and search for the tell-tale veil of sweeping scarlet locks. That hair! That bountiful blossom of faith and courage, the wellspring of his hope for better days. Her namesake. Her badge of honor. Her bleeding conviction. Her..her..

_Shaggy, short hair?_

She wore quiet eyes beneath a resolute brow, and lightweight tendrils fanned around her heart-shaped face. It was no longer than his had been. He could have imagined it, but she seemed to stand taller. Her gait seemed lighter, as if feathers adorned her bones instead of muscles, now. She was a warrior, come home with word of victory.

Her whispering feet carried her to his side. Her timid fingers were concealed behind her back. He ached for them to warm his flesh, to tell him what was going on, to explain why she had rid herself of his shining field of roses.

The only explanation she offered was a blindfold. Reaching forward, she carefully slipped it over his eyes. He stayed quiet, and listened to the rustling of… leaves? No, a bag of sorts being opened, maybe. And then the small, silent brush of some kind of.. silk? Silk against fabric. Thread? What was that? What did she have?

"Erza?"

"Wait," came the stern, yet sweet, conspiring reply. "I… You said you had an appointment."

And then he felt it. The most comforting blanket was placed upon his head, the soft texture so incredibly pleasing to his cold crown that he shuddered out a grateful sigh. The warmth was overwhelmingly pleasant. And the smell! The smell was intoxicating… freshly sliced strawberries. Sweet cream. Amber honey. Its ends caressed the nape of his neck, and gently kissed his protruding cheekbones. This veil's tender affections were so warm and lofty that the thieves behind his ribcage suddenly snatched another bag of gold out of the thin, hospital room air, but this time he was not hacking. He let the two of them run off with the treasure as the wild blood pulsed through his veins. This ecstasy. What was this? Where was he? Surely he was home. Surely he was waking up beside her. Surely the sunlight was pouring in to bathe them both in redemption and refuge. Surely neither of them had fought a day in their lives. Surely she did not need to protect him anymore.

And yet, she removed the blindfold, and he found that she was doing just that once again; for a helmet of the finest armor now adorned his sickly skull, promising courage and victory for the greatest battle he had faced in all of his tragic years.

With wide eyes, full of tears that were neither weak, nor small, he gazed.

"Erza Scarlet," he murmured. She smiled brightly, then, her own courageous tears painting her blushing cheeks. Such a smile.

"Scarlet..." Words that had already come to pass. Words that he had spoken in a moment that he had indeed counted, for he said those words during the days he counted every moment he had with her as a drop of saving grace. Words that broke the dam that kept every memory of his misgivings and sins locked away. They swam and raced and danced, and his clumsy tongue suddenly found its feet and he knew he had hurt so many and he had nearly killed her and he wanted her to know that he loved her and that even though the darkness ensnared his mind that it did not touch his heart and he never did stop loving her, not for one second.

"It was your hair."

Her namesake.


End file.
